


the tangled boughs of Heaven

by ac_MaryAgnes



Series: Can Spring Be Far Behind? [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Family Drama, Family of Choice, Gen, Name Change, New Lives, Raising Harry Potter, Severus Snape Adopts Harry Potter, parenting is hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-16 16:42:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13640235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ac_MaryAgnes/pseuds/ac_MaryAgnes
Summary: Thou dirgeOf the dying year, to which this closing nightWill be the dome of a vast sepulchreSnapshots of a changing life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first six years.

A sudden noise woke him up, a noise he wasn’t used to. It had him reaching for a wand that wasn’t there at first, hand grasping at the air and sheets under his pillow before he could identify the sound. It was a baby – it was _his_ baby.

Severus closed his eyes for a moment.

“You are Michael Scott Stevens,” he reminded himself. “You are Michael, and the child crying is your son, John Henry. Lily’s son and _your_ son; not The Boy Who Lived. He is crying, Michael, and you need to get up to soothe him.”

Michael took a fortifying breath and eased out of bed, stumbling around in the dark as he struggled to the door. In the next room, a small toddler was standing on wobbly legs in his crib, cheeks red and wet with stress and tears, as he called out. The mobile above the boy's crib spun franticly in the windless room, and stuffed animals flung themselves from shelves on to the floor and into the walls. 

“Dadadada!”

“I’m here,” the man soothed, lifting the child close to his chest. Small fists clutched his shirt as the boy clung to him and sobbed. “I’m here, John Henry. It’s all okay. Daddy’s here.”

-

People stared at them. They stared all the time. Conversations stopped when Michael entered a shop or walked by on the street. Almost no one came into the new herbalist shop with the cosy little apartment above.

They were new, and new was weird. Weird got stared at.

 _‘It’ll die down,’_ Michael assured himself as he pushed the buggy down the store aisles, John Henry stashed safely in the child seat. _‘They don’t stare because they know you’re a criminal, Severus. They aren’t going to call your old associates down to kill you or the boy. You’re new in town and they don’t know you. It’ll die down.’_

The grocer stared as he scanned and bagged the vegetables, fruits and meat. The woman who ran the post office stared as he dropped off his monthly bills, though she smiled when John Henry blew spit bubbles at her. The two old men who sat in the park playing chess stopped their game and stared when Michael took John Henry through for walks.

_‘It’ll die down. It has to.’_

-

A small toddler wobbled on unsteady legs as he wandered into the kitchen. Manoeuvring around the table and chairs, he bumped gently into the cabinets before steadying himself, grasping onto his father’s trousers. Michael looked down at the small face grinning up at him.

“Got yourself all the way over here on your own, have you?” he murmured softly to the baby. The child’s grin widened as he bent his knees up and down. “Well, now that you’re here, what would you like, little man?”

“Up,” was the clear demand.

“Ah, but I’m making dinner,” Michael shook his head. “Can you smell dinner?”

“Es. Up.”

“Would you like to help make dinner, John Henry?”

The boy giggled and bounced a little more. “Up.”

Michael rolled his eyes at himself. “Conversing with a fifteen month old,” he groused to himself, bending to pick up his son. “Who would have thought, hmm?”

The boy was deposited into his highchair and dragged over to the counter where Michael was chopping vegetables. A bit of sauce was put into a small, plastic bowl and given to the boy, along with a spoon.

“Can you stir that like daddy does?” Michael asked his son. He showed the boy what he meant – guiding the tiny, pudgy hand around the bowl in a circle – then stepped a bit to the side and let John Henry do it. A look of intense concentration came over the small face as the boy circled the spoon in the sauce very slowly. Green eyes darted up to his father to check.

“Very good,” Michael praised with a smile. “That’s very good, John Henry. You keep doing that, okay? Daddy’s going to chop veggies while you stir the sauce.”

-

“It’s negative four degrees outside, my radiator is broken, and you’re telling me that you won’t be able to come out for another three days?!”

The voice on the other end of the phone was very apologetic, but swore there was no other way.

“I have a two year old and a business to run – what makes you think I can wait three more days for this sort of repair?”

The voice recommended a very reliable space heater and lots of sweaters until they could come. And please be assured they’d be looking for the soonest availability, Mr Stevens.

Michael threw the phone down into the cradle with a satisfying clatter. He looked over his shoulder at the boy on the couch. His curly haired child peaked out from under in layers and layers of blankets, his nose red and his eyes wide. Michael didn’t mind the cold, really, but his son needed to stay warm.

“Alright, John Henry,” he sighed, mostly to himself. “We’re going to the store and then we’ll camp out in the living room. How does that sound?”

“A’ven-ture?”

Michael made a face. A space heater, every blanket in the house, and maybe a fire in the fireplace; perhaps to a two year old, it would be something mildly adventurous. “Yes, I suppose it’ll be like an adventure.”

-

Shrieks bounced off the walls as tiny feet stomped across the floor. 

“John Henry,” Michael tried, tense and aggravated as he chased after the naked child. “This isn’t a game – it’s bath time.”

“No!” How in the world did such a tiny creature that couldn’t even stand steady a few months ago, now run faster than Michael could ever hope to catch?

“John Henry!” Michael paused in the kitchen. Leaning against the counter, he sighed and ran a hand down his face. “Why in the world did I think this was a good idea? What the hell am I doing, Lily?” he asked the ceiling. Of course, the plaster held no answers.

Down the hall, Michael could hear the tiny trickle of liquid hitting the wooden floor.

“Daddy! I peepee!”

Michael growled. “I know where he gets _that_ from,” he sneered. “Stay right where you are, John Henry!” Michael stooped beneath the sink for paper towels and floor cleaner.

-

“Daddy, can I go school today?”

Michael chuckled softly to himself. “No John Henry,” he said, very carefully slicing reeds. “Today is Saturday – there’s no school again until Monday.”

“Oh.” John Henry looked at his socks as he thought. “Is it far away?”

“Well, go get the small calendar on my desk and we’ll see together.”

“Okay!” John Henry raced into his father’s study and grabbed the appointment calendar off the desk. When he arrived back into the kitchen, Michael was just finishing up washing his hands.

“I got it!” John Henry pushed the book into his daddy’s legs as Michael crouched down beside him.

“Okay,” Michael said, straightening out the page. “Now, lets see. Do you remember the days of the week?”

“SundayMondayTuesdayWedsday, FursdayFridaySaturday,” John Henry recited.

“Very good. So today is Saturday the 6th,” Michael pointed to the little box under the Saturday column. “And then there’s Sunday,” his finger moved down to the little box numbered 7, “and school will be on Monday.” Michael’s finger rested on the box labelled 8 under the Monday column. “So we will have today, and all day tomorrow, and then you will have school on Monday.”

John Henry inspected the little boxes and their numbers. Today had already been pretty long, and tomorrow always seemed like forever. Anything on the other side of tomorrow was impossible to imagine. “Is gonna be a long time b’fore school on Monday.”

Michael chuckled. “You won’t think so when you’re older, John Henry. But I suppose to any three year old, it does seem like a very long time.” Michael thought for a moment. “Would you like to help me in here? I’m putting tea packets together.”

“Yes!” John Henry loved helping his daddy, and putting dirt and bits of grass into little bags was a Very Important Job.

“Alright. Go put the calendar back on my desk where you found it and we’ll get started.”

-

“Is it mail time?” John Henry asked from his position seated at the display counter with his colouring book. Michael looked up from his accounting to glance at the clock.

“You know, I think it might be.” Closing the book and setting it aside, Michael stood. “Lets get your coat and we’ll walk over.”

John Henry let out a cheer and carefully climbed down the step stool his father had made for him. “Will Mrs H have cookies?”

Michael took a deep breath. “She does seem to, doesn’t she?” He held open the little jacket for his son to put his arms through. “You’ll ask nicely, though, John Henry.”

“Because demanding is rude,” the boy recited.

“That’s right.”

The weather outside was brisk and cool, a beautiful autumn day. The town doctor and his partner were walking down the opposite side of the street, but the doctor raised his hand in greeting when he saw father and son exit their shop. Michael returned it gladly, his other arm jerking as John Henry skipped happily next to him. He was using his father’s hand for balance as he hopped from one foot to another, trying to avoid the cracks in the sidewalk.

It struck Michael suddenly that maybe he should write to the boy’s aunt, let her know that everything was better than she could have even imagined it. Nearly five years was enough time, surely, for the worst of the war to have past.

But no. The letter could fall into the wrong hands and even if it reached the Dursley’s home, there would be no point. Petunia barely remembered her sister was dead. No sense rocking the boat when she didn’t even know she had a nephew. Receiving a mysterious letter would raise more questions than it answered. Even if the boy was a bright, generous young boy, thriving outside of her home just as she’d hoped he would.

-

Snow was just starting to fall as the parishioners exited the church. It was a quiet Christmas Eve, as it always had been, and Midnight Mass tended to be quieter than most. Michael, while never a particularly religious man, had felt an unexpected sense of comfort returning to the traditions his late maternal grandmother once held.

 _‘You’ll never truly fit in, you know,’_  the dark, oily voice of doubt passed through his mind. _‘You can try, but you know things they can’t even imagine. Done things they’d never dream of.’_

“Daddy, I don’t want to walk any more,” a petulant and over-tired John Henry stated, ceasing to move right where he stood on the stone pathway leading from the church to the parking lot.

Michael looked at his five-year-old son and frowned a bit. “Would you like me to carry you?”

John Henry pouted up to his father and gave a great sigh, bright pink lip poking out. The world was awfully hard sometimes when you were small. “Yes.”

Michael sighed and crouched down, tugging the bright green woollen cap down snug over his son’s unruly, black curls. “Up you get, then,” Michael declared gruffly, hefting the dead weight of his son into his arms. John Henry draped his arms over his father’s shoulders and snuggled in. “Father Christmas is coming tonight, you know. You’ll have to get right into bed or he won’t come.”

“After cookies and carrots,” was John Henry’s sullen reply, reminding his father of the tradition of setting out carrots for the reindeer and cookies for Father Christmas. His breath was hot against his father’s neck.

“I think we can manage that.”

-

The house was entirely too quiet. The shop never opened on Monday, and Michael was beginning to think that maybe he should change that policy. John Henry was at school full-time now, taking with him all the noise and movement and energy Michael had grown used to.

He didn’t want to admit it, but he missed the little scamp. But it was all right… only four more hours to go.

-

“Dad!” John Henry ran up to his father outside the schoolhouse. “Dad! Mr Jones’ sheep got into the recess yard again!”

Michael shook his head. “Again? That’s the third time this month.”

John Henry shrugged. “Mrs Davies said that if it happens one more time, she’s going to thump him.”

“I highly doubt that,” his father said with a frown.

John Henry just hitched his shoulders again and reached up to grab Michael’s hand. “She said that Vicar Jones wouldn’t even blame her, and neither would God.”

“Well, maybe we can help Mr Jones rebuild his fence instead, hmm? I think that might be a little better idea than thumping him.”

“Do you think I can play with the dogs?”

Michael looked down at his son in surprise. “You don’t want to help build the fence?”

John Henry wobbled his head side to side. “I like Penny and Yorkie, dad. And we don’t have a dog.”

“I suppose since we don’t have one, you’ll have to play with those that belong to others. Is that it?”

“We could get a dog.”

Michael thought for a moment, remembering a night so many lifetimes ago when he saw things he hadn’t been meant to see.

“No,” he said, firm in a way his son didn’t understand. “We are _not_ getting a dog.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ages six thru ten, respectively.

“But dad, I don’t _want_ to play music. I want to play football. Everyone else already plays – they’ve _been_ playing! I want to, too!”

Michael ran his hands over his face and sat back from the dining table. He hadn’t even thought of this, really. Yes, John Henry had always been an active child, but sports? It had been so long since Michael had thought about sports. His hands dropped to his lap at he looked at the boy.

Severus would say no. Severus would say no in a heartbeat and tell him he couldn’t watch tv for a week for even asking. And he’d sign the boy up for violin lessons anyway. Then make him practice every day while all his friends were out kicking a ball around. But he wasn’t Severus any more; he was Michael. Michael would do as close to what Lily would have done as possible. And Lily would sign her son up for sports if that’s what the child wanted.

“Okay. You need to get me information, and I need to figure out the cost of it. But if it works in our budget, I’ll get you signed up for football with your friends.”

Delight lit John Henry’s face. “ _Yes_!” He jumped up from his chair and dashed around the table, flinging himself at his father. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou!”

The boy zoomed to his room and back again, a clutch of papers held out for his father to take. “That’s the team Alfie and Seamus are on. Their coach said they have room for two more players if I’m interested in trying out. I can go tomorrow if I can get cleats and pads. I’ve been practicing, though, after school and on the weekends. Alfie says I’m gonna get on the team for sure.”

John Henry babbled away as Michael looked through the forms and team information. And Michael took a deep breath and reminded himself that this was Lily’s son, just as much as James Potter’s.

-

“John Henry.” Michael called out as he replaced the phone receiver. “John Henry, I need you out here right now.”

“Coming dad.” As the boy came out of his room, Michael braced himself, hands against the counter, shoulders hunched. He had no idea how he was going to address this.

John Henry jogged into the room, slowing when he saw Michael. “Dad? What’s wrong?”

Michael took a deep breath. “I just got a call from Mr Jones, at the school. Would you like to take a guess as to what it might be about?”

John Henry swallowed. “Um… was it because of what happened at recess?”

Michael gave a shaky nod. “Yes, it was. Would you like to tell me what happened in your own words before I tell you what Mr Jones said?”

John Henry chewed the inside of his lip for a moment. “Alfie and me were playing on the tire swing at recess and Christopher wanted to swing, too. But he… he’s so weird. Christopher is… he’s just really _weird_ and he always looks dirty. He says weird things and no one likes talking to him. And Alfie and I didn’t want him hanging around. So, so we started arguing, and Alfie called him a dirty boogie eater and, well it was really funny. And then I said… something funny and Christopher got mad, and he looks so _dumb_ when he’s mad – he makes this really stupid face. So I pushed him. And Alfie thought it was funny so he was laughing, and I was laughing, and…” John Henry ended with a shrug, having run out of steam.

Michael took a deep breath and tried to steady himself. “Well, Mr Jones had a few details for me that you so carefully skimmed over. Like the fact that you and Alfie called Christopher Davies _several_ horrendous names that I will not lower myself to repeat. I don’t even want to know how you learned those words, let alone imagine how it is you believed what you said to that boy was an okay thing to do. Or how you stood there and laughed as you pushed him down. I _know_ I didn’t raise you that way. I know _your mother_ would be incredibly disappointed in you if she were to hear the way you’ve treated someone. I don’t care that you don’t like him, and if no one likes him that makes what you did doubly wrong. That child probably needs someone to talk to, someone to make the day not so horrible as you and your friends make it. You…” Michael seethed, fury clouding his vision down to a pinpoint. “You are going to go to your room and stay there until I say otherwise. I can’t even _think_ , I’m so angry at you.”

The child stood wide-eyed, tears pooling in bright emerald eyes, but Michael would not be swayed.

“Go,” he thundered, finger pushing out to point down the hall. “ _Now_ , before I decide to do worse than that.”

John Henry turned tail and ran, the door to his bedroom slamming sharply behind him.

Michael stood for a moment before crossing to the door that led down stairs into the shop. He needed to go, needed to get away from the consuming pain and rage he was feeling. He jogged fast down the outer stairs, waved a dismissing hand at Mr Williams across the street, and locked the shop’s back door tightly behind him. The back storeroom was silent and dim. Light filtered in through the blinds covering the windows. Taking several deep breaths, Severus finally released the tightly bound control he had on his emotions.

Unable to stop himself, the rage and anger washed over him. Cardboard boxes and dried herbs exploded into the air. Ceramic bowls shattered, dust and shards littering the ground. His workstations and wooden shelves were shoved across the room, banging violently into the walls. Severus would not – could not – raise a hand to the boy, but the need for violence swept over him like a tidal wave, blocking out all his senses.

When he returned to himself, Michael was left tired, feeling as if he’d been emptied out. Emptied except for overwhelming disappointment, in John Henry and in himself. He’d thought he had taught the boy better, how to be kind and thoughtful.

“I’ve failed, Lily,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and painful in the settling dust. “Seven years, I’ve tried. So hard, Lily, I’ve _tried_. And he’s turned out exactly like… like _him_. Why did you have to love him? Why couldn’t you have forgiven _me_? And now your son… Bullying other children, Lily. What am I supposed to do?” His hands came up to grip his hair, fists pulling painfully at his scalp. “How am I supposed to fix this? After everything Potter did, now his son is starting to walk down the same path and I have no idea what to do.”

Michael leaned his back against a wall and hung his head, his heart breaking for reasons he could hardly begin to innumerate.

Some time later, he waved his hand and righted the room. Everything put itself back where it belonged, as if he’d never been down there at all. He trudged back up the stairs, waving another hand at Mr Williams across the street, and entering the apartment he shared with his son. He made his way slowly down the hall to his son’s room, and after a moment’s pause entered without knocking.

Huddled on the bed, John Henry lay facing the wall. When the door opened, he scrubbed his sleeves over his face and righted his glasses, turning to look at his father. Michael’s heart broke again, and again and again.

“I’m sorry, dad,” John Henry hiccupped. His face was red and blotchy, streaked with tears. “I’m so sorry.”

Michael shook his head. “It’s not me you need to be sorry to, John Henry. And to be honest, simply being sorry isn’t going to fix this. You were cruel today, to that boy. And you’re going to spend the rest of today thinking about what you can do to make up for it tomorrow. When I drop you off at school in the morning, I’ll inform your teacher that I’ll be asking about your actions at the end of the day, to see if you’ve followed through.”

John Henry gave a jerky nod. “Okay.”

“But until further notice, you’re grounded. You will go to school and football practice and that’s it. At the game this weekend, if your team wins and everyone goes for ice cream, you will not go with them. You’ll play in the game and we will come straight home. And I don’t want to hear any arguments about it.”

The boy sniffled again. “Yes, dad.”

Hours later, after a very stiff, silent dinner and John Henry had been sent to bed early, Michael got a call from Alfie Rees’ mum.

“Michael, did Mr Jones call you today? I can’t believe what they’ve done.”

“Anne, trust I’m just as shocked as you are. This behaviour doesn’t sound like either of our sons.”

Across the lines, Anne Rees sighed. “We’ve talked to Alfie, Morgan and I have. It seems he has some self esteem issues – rather be known as a bad kid than not at all. I don’t know how he got it into his mind that was a good idea. And this poor Christopher boy, I can’t imagine what his parents must be thinking of our kids.”

“According to John Henry, he’s something of an outcast. I’ve let my son know that doesn’t excuse his behaviour.”

“Oh, absolutely. If anything, that little boy needs friends, not people to pick on him so.”

Michael nodded to himself. “John Henry will be responsible for making it up to Christopher tomorrow. I’m going to be checking in with Mr Jones in the afternoon to make sure he’s done exactly that. I’m leaving it up to him to see what he thinks is an appropriate apology.”

“Oh,” Anne cooed. “That’s awfully smart.”

“And he’s grounded – no going out or celebrating with the team if they win this weekend. Only school, football practice and games. That’s all until I say otherwise.”

“See, Morgan and I were thinking of suspending Alfie from football all together, but it seemed so harsh. I think we’ll probably copy you if that’s okay.”

“I think it’s probably for the best if Alfie and John Henry are punished the same – that way there’s no resentment for unfair treatment.”

“My thoughts exactly. Oh, I just feel so terrible for that poor little boy. I might call his parents – they’re in the student directory – and formally apologize for Alfie’s behaviour. I just can’t imagine what they must be thinking.”

Michael took a deep breath and ran a hand over his hair. He’d certainly never gotten a note from the Potter’s apologizing for their son’s actions towards _him_. But Mr and Mrs Evans were always so kind and welcoming…. Lily would call the Davies and let them know that her son’s behaviour was unacceptable and that it was being addressed directly.

“Yes, I imagine that’s a very good idea. I’ll probably do that as well.”

Anne paused for a moment. “Michael, do you think this means we’ve been bad parents?”

Michael gave a dark chuckle. “I certainly hope not. I never imagined myself as a single father to begin with and if Lily were around, she’d scalp me for doing such a poor job.”

“Oh Michael,” Anne sighed, weary and sad. “I think… I think we’re doing the best job we know how. I just hope that’s enough.”

“Me too, Anne.”

-

“That was a very good game, John Henry,” Michael told his son as he opened the trunk of their little car. “You played very well.”

“Yeah,” the eight-year-old shrugged, not all that pleased, and hefted his kit into car. “I guess.”

Michael frowned at his son and leaned against the car. "There’s no need to guess. You scored a goal, didn’t you?”

“Well, yeah, dad. But we didn’t win – we’re out of the tournament.”

Michael looked down at his son. In a nation-wide kids league football tournament, the Cutters were out in the first round. They had played very well, but ultimately the team from London they'd played against were better. He’s son’s attitude reminded Michael of another young man who thought winning at sports was everything, and he had to swallow against the instinct to lash out. Instead, he reached out and put a hand on his son's shoulder and drew the boy close. 

“Winning isn’t everything, John Henry. You played your best – better than the other team’s goalie. That is what counts.”

“Hey!” Another boy called across the car park, waving a hand as he jogged over. It was one of the boys from the London team who had beaten them. “Hey,” he breathed, smiling as he stopped in front of them. “I’m Dean,” he stuck a hand out for John Henry to shake. “You played really good today.”

John Henry looked at the boy for a moment before offering his hand in return. “Thanks. I’m John Henry. And you were really good today, too.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey John Henry!” Christopher Davies dashed across the parking lot, weaving his way through the people. Christopher had absolutely no head for sports but was eager to support his friends. He had begged his parents to let him come and watch the game even though it was an over two-hour drive from their town.

“Hey Christopher,” John Henry greeted, running a hand through his sweaty curls.

“That was a really great game,” the shorter boy enthused. “Sorry we lost, though.”

John Henry shot a glance at his dad and chewed his response over for a moment. Then he shrugged. “Yeah, but we played really well. Winning isn’t everything.”

-

Michael wandered slowly behind his son, keeping a careful eye as they weaved their way through the people milling about. The Horniman Museum wasn’t as crowded as it could have been, but there were still plenty of people for his son to get lost around. When he finally caught up to the boy, John Henry was pressed up against the glass front of one of the aquarium exhibits, watching the jellyfish float around tank.

It was John Henry’s tenth birthday and his first trip to London. Alfie, Christopher and Seamus were going to be meeting them tomorrow at the Science Museum, but today was for father and son.

“Dad!” John Henry turned with a radiant smile. “Did you know that jellyfish can clone themselves?”

“Huh.” Michael leaned forward to inspect the floating specimens. “That certainly is interesting. What else have you learned?”

“Um… jellyfish are mostly water: 95%! And they breathe through their skin, ‘cause they don’t have lungs or noses or mouths. Well, not really.”

Michael hummed again and ran a hand down the back of his son’s head. “How can they not really have a mouth?”

“Well, they have an opening, but they eat and breathe and have babies and everything through that.”

“That… that is absolutely disgusting.”

John Henry laughed. “I know!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was looking it up, and apparently the majority of people in Wales have the last names of Jones, Williams, or Evans. At least, that's what wikipedia says. I've never been to Wales and don't know anyone from there, so this is very probably wrong. However, it will explain the overlapping of surnames I've supplied here. 
> 
> Other than that, I hope everything seems plausible enough. Also, the Seamus mentioned is not Seamus Finnigan. Dean, however...¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**Author's Note:**

> I do not, at all, agree with the person Snape was in the books. I can't write a human that miserable, that bitter, that petty. It just isn't in me. If you were looking for grumpy, bitter Snape 'learning to love' or whatever, I'm not writing that story. Not now, anyway.


End file.
